<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Safety Off by copernicusjones</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29281758">Safety Off</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/copernicusjones/pseuds/copernicusjones'>copernicusjones</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Once Upon a Time in my Nazi-Occupied Single Brain Cell [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Inglourious Basterds (2009)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(I guess?) - Freeform, Clothed Sex, Come Eating, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Gunplay, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Semi-Public Sex, Wall Sex, What is porn if not the chance to dissect two assholes and their toxic relationship????, ha! dumbass has feelings!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:49:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,951</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29281758</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/copernicusjones/pseuds/copernicusjones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Would you. <i>Shut. Up</i>," Dieter growled, palm slamming over Landa's unceasing commentary.</p><p>Landa seemed to comply, and Dieter waited a beat, then two, before letting his hand fall away only to reveal an incorrigible smile.</p><p>"Or what, hm?" There was no curiosity in Landa's words. Just a challenge—an intense yearning for it, that heightened when his voice dropped to a murmur. "You'll shoot me?"</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dieter Hellstrom/Hans Landa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Once Upon a Time in my Nazi-Occupied Single Brain Cell [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164398</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Safety Off</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is my 69th fanfic posted on ao3.  Nice.  👌</p><p>Commissioned <b>CakeFlavoredFinch</b> to draw a scene inspired by this fic, which can be found <a href="https://canis-raine.tumblr.com/post/643145094317342721/under-the-gun-commission-for-the-lovely">here! ♥</a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dieter couldn't turn his back on these Frenchmen for a fucking second.<br/>
<br/>
He'd excused himself and slipped out of La Lousiane for all of a minute to take a piss, only to return and find his place next to the <em>Standartenführer</em> occupied by Auclair, the youngest of the three Carlingue members they'd been chatting with (rather, that <em>Landa</em> had been chatting with). As if he, not Dieter, <em>belonged</em> there.<br/>
<br/>
When in truth, <em>nobody</em> but Dieter belonged by Landa's side.<br/>
<br/>
His command to move didn't require translation. The rough swat he gave Auclair's shoulder said it all, and the boy darted back to the other side of the table to join his comprades, the bespectacled Rousseau and the <em>graumeliert-</em>haired Beauchamp.<br/>
<br/>
He took his seat beside Landa. His <em>pintchen</em>, that'd been nearly empty, was now filled with a crisp kölsch.<br/>
<br/>
“Having fun?” Landa dipped his head closer, that it might have looked like he was just trying to be heard over the raucous banter between the nearby Frenchmen. But under the table, his hand cupped Dieter's knee, gave it a quick squeeze. His other hand idly swirled his tumbler of whiskey.<br/>
<br/>
“Tremendously,” Dieter responded dryly. It'd been bearable—fun, even, as Landa has put it—before the Frenchmen, all auxiliary soldiers, had started acting as though Landa was their <em>friend</em>, and not one of the officers here to school them on the Schutzstaffel's tricks of the trade when it came to enforcing the laws that Occupied France was now required to abide by.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter was also one of those officers. This was his first official assignment in France, and though he didn't dread it, he certainly wasn't thrilled about it either. He could already foresee Landa, between the two of them, would be the well-liked one (as he always was). Which was fine by him, because it was apparent Landa liked the Carlingue members here, and France as a whole, more than Dieter would ever <em>want</em> to.<br/>
<br/>
Beauchamp, the only one of the trio who spoke a speck of German, began shuffling the deck of cards they'd been playing with for the better part of an hour now. “<em>Noch einen</em>?” he asked with very poor inflection, but enough to get his point across.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter wanted to answer that no, he did not want to play another fucking round of Mau-Mau, but it wasn't his call. Landa, in perfect French, said something even Dieter understood as agreement, because Beauchamp started dealing the cards out while the others swigged their beers.<br/>
<br/>
A game so simple that children played it regularly, Mau-Mau relied less on skill and more on mental acuity—which was few and far between with these Frenchmen, especially since they'd drained more than one <em>Bierstiefel</em> each.<br/>
<br/>
But Dieter knew that was precisely why Landa had so generously offered to teach the Frenchmen. It was his way of gauging their quickness, their memory and awareness, as well as their spirit—how would they handle winning, and more importantly, how might they handle losing?<br/>
<br/>
Dieter, as was usually the case, was only there to watch, and as was also usually the case, found himself grappling between being awed at Landa's affability, and annoyed he deigned to fritter it away on, of all things, <em>minderwertigen</em> Frenchmen.<br/>
<br/>
The object of the game, like many others, was to shed all one's cards. However, several of the cards had different effects that should have been quite easy to recall, even for first-timers like the Carlingue members. Rousseau, who appeared to be the most intoxicated of the three, couldn't remember which card was meant for reversing (Queen), and which was meant to skip the next player (Ace), which worked in Landa's favor. Meanwhile, Auclair and Beauchamp seemed to have brokered a silent agreement to team up against Rousseau, playing their sevens and nines, forcing him to draw more cards whenever possible.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter had his own agenda. He didn't even care about winning himself. He just didn't want Landa to win. Again.<br/>
<br/>
But Landa won again. Dieter, who'd been down to a single card, had to listen to accusations from the Frenchmen that he didn't declare “Mau-Mau” in time, with Landa having played his next card lightning-fast, and he had every suspicion Landa could have won several turns beforehand, only drawing it out for his own entertainment.<br/>
<br/>
Lifting his empty tumbler, Landa said something presumably meaning one of the Frenchmen should buy him a drink for his victory. Dieter hoped he wasn't also suggesting they buy themselves another round.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Non, non!</em>” exclaimed Rousseau. “<em>Comment dit-on... </em>ah!” He pointed at Landa with fervent accusation. “<em>Du schummelst!</em>”<br/>
<br/>
He laughed, ugly and honking like a goose, and the other Frenchmen joined in. Landa, too, laughed along with them.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter did not.<br/>
<br/>
No one accused Hans Landa of cheating.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Soldat!” </em>Which they weren't, exactly, but it was the same in both French and German, and Rousseau knew he was being addressed.<br/>
<br/>
Rousseau blinked, looking very much like a drunken owl. <em>“Oui?”</em><br/>
<br/>
Dieter smiled first at Landa, then at the Frenchmen. Keeping his tone perfectly pleasant, he informed them, “You say that to him again, and I'll shoot you.” His available hand curled to resemble a pistol, which he aimed directly at Auclair, then Rousseau. Once more, no translation required.<br/>
<br/>
The Frenchmen exchanged meaningful glances with each other, unsure what to make of the contradiction between Dieter's smile and his threatening gesture. They laughed again, this time in varying degrees of discomfort.<br/>
<br/>
With Beauchamp too cowed to translate, Landa did the honors, also folding his fingers to mimic a gun. The Carlingue began babbling profusely, heavily apologetic in tone. Beauchamp practically tripped over himself to interpret, in shaky German.<br/>
<br/>
“They say they're just kidding around,” he spoke over them. “That they mean the colonel no disrespect. H-He's a fine man; surely, he'd never—”<br/>
<br/>
“I see.” Dieter interrupted, and exhaled from his cigarette. A pause only to keep them in suspense, as if truly mulling over their explanation. Finally, with a remarkable calm, he told them, “Well. Tell them that I'm just kidding too.”<br/>
<br/>
Beauchamp did as much, and the younger two looked between him and Dieter—and then to Landa, as if grasping for a lifeline. Dieter wanted to reach across the table and gouge their eyes out.<br/>
<br/>
Placing a hand on Dieter's arm, a <em>settle down</em> signal if there ever was one, Landa intervened with a few lines of French that caused the auxiliaries' concern to vanish. They responded positively enough, with Rousseau readily flagging down the serving girl and Auclair proceeding to chat with her.<br/>
<br/>
Beauchamp, conversely, was more focused on Dieter and Landa. At least he, of the three of them, seemed genuinely remorseful for his mistake, opposed to only apologizing out of an inherent cowardice. When the server returned with a new whiskey for Landa and more beer for the younger two Carlingue, Beauchamp attempted a wobbly smile and raised his own half-drained glass to acknowledge Landa.<br/>
<br/>
Landa followed suit, but Dieter only glared. Beauchamp being <em>less</em> useless than the other two didn't necessarily make him valuable.<br/>
<br/>
Landa, as he had earlier, leaned close to Dieter, their shoulders touching. But this time, he spoke loud enough to ensure Beauchamp could overhear. “I simply told them they needn't worry—that you aren't even armed. And that I'd gladly take that victory drink.”<br/>
<br/>
If they hadn't an audience, Dieter would have asked why the <em>fuck</em> Landa would divulge that sort of information about him, or <em>any</em> Gestapo officer. But asking <em>why</em> Landa did or said anything was a practice in futility. He was the famed Jew Hunter, renowned not only in the Sicherheitsdienst but all of the SS, for a reason. And though Dieter felt foolish at times having become so involved with him, he'd learned, like so many others (well, perhaps not <em>exactly</em> like so many others), that questioning even the most innocuous of Landa's statements or actions was even more foolish.<br/>
<br/>
Unfortunately, they did have an audience. “What <em>else</em> did you tell them?”<br/>
<br/>
“Why, that perhaps you'd be kind enough to regale them with exactly how you came to damage your pistol?”<br/>
<br/>
“I don't think they're interested.”<br/>
<br/>
Landa started, “Hm, so you're telling me you're <em>not</em> kind enough to—”<br/>
<br/>
“I'm not,” Dieter confirmed.<br/>
<br/>
Landa fought back a smile, lips pressed flat. His gaze hovered on Dieter a second longer, promising future reprimand. Dieter was often subject to this particular expression, as it came when he dared to defy Landa's requests so flippantly. He, alone, had earned it—both the chance to rebuke Landa, and to face the consequences.<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, but, <em>ja</em>, but we're very interested! We'd love to hear, Sturmbannführer,” Beauchamp said cheerfully. He swiped at Rousseau beside him, gaining his attention, which also drew Auclair in. “I could even do the honors of interpreting.”<br/>
<br/>
“Ah, see—” Landa began.<br/>
<br/>
“I think the Standartenführer here,” Dieter interrupted once more and indicated Landa, “eloquent as he is, would love nothing more than to tell you himself—and it will save us the trouble of translating. And surely, you'll all enjoy his version of events, more than you would mine.”<br/>
<br/>
As pathetically enamored with Landa as they were, their acceptance was instant, as was Landa's acceptance to relay it. But Dieter knew it wasn't about the story. It never was what it appeared to be on the surface, with Landa.<br/>
<br/>
That it was much like the card game, a method with which to examine the Frenchmen. How would they respond to the violent means that would be demanded of them, and inflicting it upon their own countrymen, no less?<br/>
<br/>
And so, Landa launched into an animated account that, judging by his gestures, was an honest interpretation of what had occurred.<br/>
<br/>
Which was nothing noteworthy. Just another defiant French national, out past curfew; sadly, common enough. Common, but plenty suspicious and giving Dieter every right to question her and ask for her <em>Ausweis.</em> When she hadn't produced it and made to run, he'd grabbed her, and the stupid bitch had tried to struggle away from him. She'd started screaming, and all it took was one heavy blow with the butt of his Luger to temporarily silence her, and drop her to the sodden stone pavement.<br/>
<br/>
At this part, Landa flung his hand out to demonstrate, striking Dieter squarely on the nose. Dieter reacted immediately, but with Landa anticipating it, and effectively dodging before the punch was even thrown, Dieter's fist only glanced across Landa's shoulder.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Scheißkerl!</em>” Dieter swore, shoving at Landa again and nearly pushing him off the bench.<br/>
<br/>
The Carlingue were erupting with laughter, and Landa joined them, needing several seconds to compose himself before finishing the tale.<br/>
<br/>
There wasn't much left to tell. The force of hitting the Frenchwoman had broken something inside Dieter's pistol; the trigger had jammed when he'd gone to shoot her, and make her silence more than temporary.<br/>
<br/>
Rousseau's glazed eyes widened behind his spectacles. “<em>Que s'est-il passé?</em>”<br/>
<br/>
A basic enough phrase that Dieter could understand. <em>What happened</em>?<br/>
<br/>
To the woman, presumably.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter waved Landa off. He pointed to Beauchamp, who'd wanted to translate so badly, and ordered him to do just that as he graciously gave them the answer they sought.<br/>
<br/>
That he'd left her in the street, out cold—he hadn't time to worry about this worthless cunt whose fault it was his pistol was possibly irreparably damaged. If she had survived the night, he didn't know or care. Judging by the way she was bleeding, and the whip-like <em>crack!</em> when her head hit the ground, he had his doubts.</p><p>He made sure to keep his eyes firmly on the Frenchmen both as he described it, and as Beauchamp translated. Any remnants of laughter from Landa's antics were squashed out. Perhaps Landa was gifted at telling stories, but Dieter was confident in his ability to end them.<br/>
<br/>
Landa put in a few more words, his tone soothing and kind, and the auxiliaries' visible disconcertion waned. Were they so weak, lacking in fortitude, that they couldn't cull these unacceptable and distracting emotions on their own? Needed Landa to do it for them? It just reinforced why Dieter hated France, and everything and everyone in it.<br/>
<br/>
Because he was uneasy too—or had been, anyway. Would never dare to show it, of course, but being anywhere unarmed during a war, especially in this shithole country, was a valid reason if there ever was one. The one thing keeping it from being top of mind tonight, at La Louisiane, was because if there was any place in France that Dieter might not consider dangerous to any extent, it was this dingy tavern.<br/>
<br/>
And, yes, he still had his dagger, but that didn't provide enough security to risk being out like this, for so long. What he <em>did </em> have, that served as far better protection than any dagger or a pistol, was Landa.<br/>
<br/>
Landa, who, in the couple hours since they'd arrived at the tavern, never completely taken his attention off Dieter. Something about this, about Landa's presence, for as agitating as it could be, gave Dieter what he might define as calm. Because, save for their heated trysts, no one was ever more in control of his surroundings, and those within it, than Hans Landa.<br/>
<br/>
Further proven by Landa quelling additional questions—or games of Mau-Mau—by saying something that included motioning vaguely towards the other side of the tavern. To the alcove where Dieter had wanted to go to when they'd first arrived, before Landa decided it was more in order to socialize.<br/>
<br/>
The Frenchmen didn't protest, especially given that Landa pointed to their drinks—another round for all of them, Dieter gathered by their hazy smiles.<br/>
<br/>
“It's too bad you must leave so soon—perhaps another time we can all gather together again?” Beauchamp said, in German—for Dieter's benefit? He raised his glass.<br/>
<br/>
“Perhaps,” Dieter said wryly, raising his glass in return. He downed the last few swallows of his kölsch.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Schnell</em>.” Landa, who was already standing, took Dieter by the arm. He didn't sound angry or annoyed—impatient, if anything. To get away from the Frenchmen, or to get Dieter alone? It didn't matter.<br/>
<br/>
The Frenchmen slurred out pleasant farewells to the both of them, and for as much as Dieter couldn't wait to be rid of them, he was struck with an urge to toy with them one final time.<br/>
<br/>
Landa had tested them his way: subtle, the careful ebb and flow approach that he'd masterfully constructed over decades of maneuvering those within his scope to his every whim. And, at times, something Dieter saw as needless procedure, but then again, Landa seemed to live for needless procedure so long as it could also amuse him.<br/>
<br/>
This was hardly needless or careful; it was as direct and forthright as one could be.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Adieu, Soldaten</em>,” he told them with a caustic smile, then lifted his right arm in salute to the <em>Vaterland</em>. “And Heil Hitler.”<br/>
<br/>
The Carlingue hesitated long enough to be irritating before mirroring his <em>Hitlergruß </em>with limp, sloppy ones of their own. Their stupid gaping faces almost made this venture out here tonight worth it, when he should have spent it solely in Landa's company.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Schnell</em>, Sturmbannführer,” Landa repeated himself, and this time—tugging on Dieter's sleeve in a way that was distinctly proprietorial—it was an order.</p>
<hr/><p>The alcove at the far end of the tavern housed nothing more than a single table and a <em>Grammophon</em>. It was where Dieter and Landa had spent most of their evening the first, and only other, time Landa had brought him to La Louisiane.<br/>
<br/>
“You didn't have to show me off like that,” Dieter said, taking the sole seat at the table. “I was only doing my job.”<br/>
<br/>
“How was I showing you off?” Landa said, back to him as he fiddled with the <em>Grammophon</em>. “I was merely relaying an actual event. You know as well as I do how much they thrive on any little crumb of excitement. You do realize that the majority of the men who applied to be part of the Carlingue did so not because they truly believe themselves effective, but because they wish to escape the mundane?”<br/>
<br/>
“Or simply ingratiate themselves,” Dieter pointed out. “Trying to mask their incompetence with all that praise. You'll let any common idiot run their mouth as much as they'd like so long as it's punctuated with kissing your ass.”<br/>
<br/>
Landa lapped up the attention like a cat did cream. Being recognized and lauded for his accomplishments—and the power that recognition subsequently gave him—was the only sustenance he seemed to require.<br/>
<br/>
“Well...” Landa paused, allowing the <em>Grammophon</em> to start up with its thin, reedy tune. He turned to Dieter. “That's to make up for this disrespectful Sturmbannführer I happened to be acquainted with who sees fit to do nothing but tear me apart, piece by piece, at every convenience.”<br/>
<br/>
<em>Schwachsinn.</em> As if anything Dieter ever said <em>affected</em> Landa. Though not for lack of trying, on Dieter's end.<br/>
<br/>
“I still think we spent a needlessly long time with them. So I can only conclude you were, in a way, trying to torture me.”<br/>
<br/>
“Certainly, that was part of it. But what if I was also being truthful in my recognition of your achievements? You haven't become a major for nothing, regardless of the avenues you might have taken.” A short pause, and Landa's tone lowered, like he might be imparting confidential information. “What if I said <em>I'm</em> proud of you?”</p><p>The low candlelight guttered, framing the crafty look Landa could give Dieter now that they were alone. His eyes, so green and arresting, gleamed with an unmistakable intent.<br/>
<br/>
“Then prove it by buying me another drink,” Dieter said, purposely ignoring the game Landa wanted to play. Perhaps this would be the night that he wouldn't succumb to Landa's pretenses, although the fact that he wanted to suggest a considerably different way for Landa to display his appreciation proved that was unlikely.<br/>
<br/>
With a restrained smile, Landa set his hand on Dieter's shoulder, where it lingered, squeezed meaningfully, before he dropped it and departed for the bar.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter could already feel his thoughts drifting to how things would unfold once they left. Landa's voice carrying over as he chatted away amiably with the bartender wasn't helping matters. It was irritating beyond belief—why couldn't he just go, order the beer, and return without getting sidetracked? But it was also, at the same time, endlessly appealing, that any person could be so effortlessly <em>charming</em> no matter the situation, the company—and wielded that charm with such finesse and power, all for the ends of serving the Reich.<br/>
<br/>
He shifted on the stool, incredibly conscious of how stiff his movements now were, as he dwelt on Landa and his authority. Needing a distraction—he was <em>thisclose</em> to rubbing himself through his slacks, just once or twice to ease the ache—Dieter pulled out his cigarette case.<br/>
<br/>
His first drag was accompanied by Landa's return.<br/>
<br/>
“Here you are, my little <em>Griesgram</em>. A fresh kölsch—” With a heavy <em>thunk</em>, Landa set the glass down in front of Dieter, beer foaming out over the rim. "—and a brand new pistol.”<br/>
<br/>
Another <em>thunk</em>. A gun, sleek and shiny, placed alongside the filmy <em>Pintchen</em>.<br/>
<br/>
Landa placed his own whiskey on the table and stationed himself on the other side, leaning against the wall. Even with no stool to sit upon, Dieter knew that Landa preferred sitting only when he wanted to lull the person he was speaking with into a sense of equality. At this moment, Landa was very plainly showing off his status as senior officer.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter's free hand hovered over the pistol, finally closing around the grip. “What's this?”<br/>
<br/>
“<em>That</em> is a Walther P3. You've heard, I'm sure, Lugers are no longer being manufactured at the same rate they once were. These are more reliable, in the long run. Sturdier. Fitting for a high-ranking SS officer such as yourself.”<br/>
<br/>
“I <em>know</em> that.” <em>Verdammt</em> Landa and his pedantry. “But why are you giving it to me? Here?”<br/>
<br/>
“Well, as you so ably recounted for us all earlier, your previous firearm was damaged. Correct?”<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Ja</em>.” Something wasn't right. “But...”<br/>
<br/>
“<em>But...</em>?” Landa motioned for him to continue.<br/>
<br/>
“But are you going to give me a fucking answer or not, Hans?”<br/>
<br/>
Everything with Landa was either an interrogation or a performance, which is what made him so exceptionally beguiling to all those he was became acquainted with.<br/>
<br/>
And so incredibly aggravating to Dieter. This, he sensed, was the latter.<br/>
<br/>
“You're asking <em>why</em>? Well, why not? You would have received one eventually.” Landa took the pistol for himself, admiring it as if it were his first time seeing one. “Within the next day or two. I was only expediting the process.”<br/>
<br/>
<em>Ha.</em> “So it's a gift? Turning sentimental in your old age, are you?”<br/>
<br/>
“It's hardly a gift. A gift is not something you earn. But<em> this.</em>” Landa's thumb grazed the muzzle slowly. Almost... sensually. “Consider it recognition of the efforts that helped you achieve the rank of major, that I present it to you personally.”<br/>
<br/>
He couldn't reject it. Just, the notion <em>behind</em> it was what struck Dieter as uncharacteristic—that there seemed to be no real notion behind it at all. Landa wasn't one for gifts, not without purpose, at least. If he was getting someone something tangible, reciprocation of a kind was expected. The only other option, as Dieter had experienced a few years ago, was the gift being a means to mock, to rub salt in a wound.<br/>
<br/>
Which was clearly not the case here.<br/>
<br/>
An image blurred through Dieter's mind. Using his new pistol to back Landa into the corner, sealing off any barbed remarks with a vicious kiss. The kiss devolving into something <em>worse</em> (better?) and dangerous—Landa would call it <em>thrilling</em>—with them entirely heedless to the officers in the next room. And the whole time, Dieter keeping the muzzle jammed to Landa's stomach, unshaking, as he used his other hand to free them both from the confines of their uniform slacks.<br/>
<br/>
He blinked the image away, taking another drink of beer as an excuse to avoid Landa's steely gaze.<br/>
<br/>
“So that's it? Not even a simple '<em>Danke</em>'?” Landa set the pistol back on the table, allowing his fingers to travel up the barrel before releasing it and murmuring, “Unless you were planning to show your thanks in a... different manner?”<br/>
<br/>
“You mean, buying you a drink as well?” Dieter couldn't act obtuse as well as Landa, not for the same prolonged stretches of time, but he wasn't beyond making the attempt.<br/>
<br/>
Normally, Dieter wouldn't go about <em>serving</em> Landa so openly, but his thoughts—desires—were growing far too unsettling. This is what happened when he drank—this tendency to allow his inhibitions to falter. It was something Landa had become keenly aware of early on. Had taken advantage of it during Dieter's previous stay in France, and was working his way towards doing again.<br/>
<br/>
Before Landa could decline, Dieter took the empty tumbler and stood, ready to make good on his offer. But Landa was just as quick, pulling Dieter back within the seclusion of the alcove.</p><p>With great deliberation, Landa prised the tumbler from Dieter, stretching to set it on the table behind him and ensuring their bodies brushed as he did so. They were close—<em>too close</em>, if inspected with more than a passing glance.<br/>
<br/>
Tipping his mouth up, Landa whispered near Dieter's ear, “<em>Nein</em>, I don't think either of us need another drop. Perhaps, instead, we should make our exit?”<br/>
<br/>
“Why...?” He hoped Landa couldn't see him licking his lips, couldn't feel his nerves starting to hum due to their proximity.<br/>
<br/>
“Well, we've been here a while. I know you're only here at my behest, anyway.” He toyed with a button of Dieter's uniform, the same ones he'd proven he could unfasten in an instant. “This isn't your... preferred way of spending an evening off.”<br/>
<br/>
Dieter wasn't sure what to make of Landa's offer; it was far too selfless to be characteristic.<br/>
<br/>
He rarely catered to Dieter's wishes. Usually Dieter just had to wait out evenings like this, and he'd grown well-versed in it, so it didn't bother him terribly. It was better than raising suspicion of any sort, of why he didn't engage in constant camaraderie with other officers the way they so frequently did with each other. He was still seen as asocial by many, but too intimidating to dare question.<br/>
<br/>
But what was the catch this time? Yes, inevitably they'd end up back in Landa's townhouse, in his bed and frantically fucking, but...<br/>
<br/>
Why was Landa <em>asking</em>? Not telling, <em>ordering</em> him, that it was time to go?<br/>
<br/>
All he could reply with was his own question. “Do <em>you</em> want to leave?”<br/>
<br/>
Landa's hand coasted down, from the buttons of the uniform to Dieter's belt. “I'd like to show you how to load that new pistol of yours. In private.”<br/>
<br/>
“I know how to load a gun,” he said pointlessly. As if he hadn't picked up on the connotation of Landa's statement.<br/>
<br/>
He couldn't allow this in almost-public—but he also couldn't push Landa off in almost-public, despite their ranks now being closer than ever. He settled for backing away, himself. Landa just matched him, minimizing the space between them even more.<br/>
<br/>
“I'd still like to...” His touch trailed between Dieter's legs, finger stroking the same careful line it had along the barrel of the Walther.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter sucked back a quiet curse, his lower body jolting at the hip as he tried to evade Landa's advances.<br/>
<br/>
“Now, now. Compose yourself, Sturmbannführer,” Landa scolded. “No need for such language... <em>yet</em>. I'll have you know I already called my driver to retrieve us early. When I was getting you that beer. He should be here in... oh, a little over half an hour. Plenty of time, if you'd still like to buy me the refill. Or get yourself one.”<br/>
<br/>
Which neither of them wanted, that much was clear.<br/>
<br/>
What else was clear (and it shouldn't have taken this long, not when Dieter had played his role in this production <em>so </em>many times before) was why Landa was going through the trouble of asking, when he'd already mapped it out.<br/>
<br/>
Because, Dieter knew: Landa just wanted to hear him <em>say</em> it.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Nein.</em> I mean, I don't want another drink. Let's leave. I...” <em>Can't take it</em>. <em>Need to get you into bed, you manipulative Arschloch</em>. “I've had enough of this <em>Müllkippe.</em>”<br/>
<br/>
Landa traced one final stroke down the buttoned fly of Dieter's slacks. “Mm, excellent, that makes two of us. Then let us go say farewell to our new comrades, and we can depart. Oh, and don't forget your gift now. You wouldn't want it to fall into the wrong hands.”<br/>
<br/>
Still facing Dieter, Landa reached around him for the Walther resting on the table. In turn, Dieter snatched it away, and by the time he holstered it, Landa was already on his way out of the alcove, as if, much like his empty tumbler of whiskey, he was finished with Dieter.</p><p>Flicking his cigarette to the floor and leaving his half-full kölsch behind, Dieter stood a step outside of the alcove, looking but not really watching as Landa reconvened with the now-even-more <em>besoffen</em> Carlingue. His thoughts were strictly on just <em>how</em> Landa had, once again, orchestrated not just the time of and motivation for their exit, but everything leading up to it.<br/>
<br/>
Not only <em>this</em> night, but the span of nights, months and months of them, before he'd arrived in France, in which they <em>hadn't</em> seen each other. This was a reunion of sorts, in a way only a reunion with Landa could and would be—and almost exactly what Dieter had expected.<br/>
<br/>
Landa hardly, if ever, came outright with describing his goal of getting Dieter alone in any exact terms. Which was the point, the infinite ways in which he could disguise his propositions and still achieve precisely what he'd set out for.<br/>
<br/>
The issue that frequently cropped up, as it had in the two days since Dieter had arrived in France, was finding a window of time that <em>allowed</em> Landa's schemes come to any fruition. Certainly, they could have gone straight to Landa's townhouse this evening—and Dieter wouldn't have minded in the slightest—but that would have been too simple. Straightforward. Boring.<br/>
<br/>
Sexual stimulation wasn't just about the body, for Landa; it was far and away about the mind. This approach, of reeling Dieter in, then slackening his hold just enough for Dieter to counter—not <em>too</em> successfully, of course—was something well-rehearsed between them, yet seemed to delight Landa each and every time. And for Dieter, consistently left him having no choice but to channel his frustration with these wiles of Landa by taking it out on the man himself.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter had long since given up trying to cure himself of his proclivities towards men, which would have been a rather risky decision were he as casual in his affairs as Landa, who'd likely succumbed to his own urges and fucked upwards of a dozen women in their time apart. But it just so worked out that Landa was the only man he had any inclination to be involved with, which, although puzzling, was something of a relief.<br/>
<br/>
Except right now he hardly felt relieved knowing he was minutes from departing with Landa. The question Dieter had tried to ask—he'd gotten an answer but not exactly; only what Landa deemed to be acceptable—floated along the surface of his thoughts.<br/>
<br/>
What was the purpose of carrying around an <em>empty</em> pistol, other than for show? And why now, <em>after</em> their games with the Carlingue? Landa could have easily given it to him beforehand, and made far less of a <em>point</em> about it.<br/>
<br/>
And how Landa had handled it, practically massaging it in a way that was far too coarse for him to have done in front of anyone else—anyone he didn't have designs on, at least...<br/>
<br/>
Somewhere on the edge of his musings, the <em>Gramophon </em>intruded. Its dulcet melody was a jarring contrast to the indecency his thoughts kept returning to, that he longed to make into a reality.</p><p>He stepped back to the alcove to remove the needle. From the Frenchmen's table, he could hear their braying laughter. Surely, Landa was the one responsible for it, and Dieter was certain it was only to further exasperate him, when his capacity to socialize had long since been depleted. If Landa didn't hurry it up and get them out of here in another minute or two, Dieter was going to hurl the <em>Gramophon</em> at them just to break up their insipid conversation.<br/>
<br/>
“If you're through dawdling about...” came Landa's voice, and Dieter turned to find him but a few feet away. It was as if he'd sensed the internal threat Dieter had contemplated, and at last remembered that <em>he</em> was the one who'd initially proposed they leave.<br/>
<br/>
“I'm not—” Dieter started, then decided against quibbling. He chanced looking to the table, where they were all watching the exchange between Dieter and Landa expectantly. “What did you say to them?”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, nothing of consequence.” Landa said with a smile. The smile stayed intact even as Dieter narrowed his eyes, making clear he didn't believe that for a second. “I'm being completely honest: I told them to enjoy themselves! And that unfortunately you wished to leave early, and I would be doing so with you.”<br/>
<br/>
“And...?” Dieter knew Landa; he wouldn't have been able to resist getting a shot or two in, at his expense.<br/>
<br/>
“And that just because you were ruining my night by cutting all our fun short, they needn't rush themselves along and do the same.”<br/>
<br/>
“You <em>really </em>think I'm ruining your night?”<br/>
<br/>
“I think, Sturmbannführer,” Landa said, setting his cap on and adjusting it, “that there's too much of the night remaining for me to reach any sort of conclusion just yet.”</p>
<hr/><p>The mist of rain that'd been present when they'd arrived had picked up into a cold, dismal stream. That, plus the enforced curfew, ensured no one was out and about the streets. But regardless of this, Nadine was a small, sleepy village. A distinct contrast to the excess and decadence of Paris, and infinitely more tolerable, as much as France could possibly be.<br/>
<br/>
Landa, ahead of Dieter, led him to the narrow alley alongside the tavern. The eaves of the building and from the shop next-door provided a sliver of shelter. Not ideal, but better than standing out in the rain.<br/>
<br/>
Again, an unlikely—and abhorrent—scenario presented itself. If they were to retreat further down this alley, behind the back of the tavern, they'd be afforded a certain privacy they hadn't inside, even in the dark of the alcove. Granted, they'd be given this same privacy once they reached Landa's townhouse, but...<br/>
<br/>
Dieter was impatient. And bold, as Landa would reprimand him for among other senior officers, but praise him for, in every conceivable manner, when they were alone.<br/>
<br/>
And right now, they were alone.<br/>
<br/>
Landa seemed undeterred by the rain and a perfectly content foil to Dieter's restlessness. He didn't blink or swipe at the drops as they slid slick over his cap, down in thin rivulets along his ears and to the stubbled planes of his cheeks.<br/>
<br/>
Wanting to make his proposition, Dieter found he couldn't. All he could do was stand there, transfixed. Finally, his lips did part, and his brain, damp with alcohol, managed to conjure up one word. Forced out, barely audible...<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Fuck</em>...”<br/>
<br/>
The corner of Landa's mouth slowly tugged up. Then, his gaze slid sidelong, matching his wicked smirk.<br/>
<br/>
He'd caught Dieter looking. <em>Staring</em>. Had probably sensed it the whole time, that it wasn't really even <em>catching</em> him.<br/>
<br/>
“Is something wrong, Sturmbannführer?”<br/>
<br/>
<em>Wrong</em> was not the term for it, even if it was, in fact, an affront to his very moral fiber. This insatiable lust that Landa stirred up within Dieter, as though slowly but surely pulleying it from a deep well until it reached the top, spilled over...<br/>
<br/>
He didn't answer—not verbally. He didn't trust himself to. Instead, he nodded for Landa to follow him down the alley.<br/>
<br/>
Landa did.</p>
<hr/><p>Amazingly, the cramped space behind the tavern wasn't already littered with any whores or vagrants—although it certainly smelled like it had been at one time, just like the rest of France. Rotted-out with an overlay of grime, like a sewer and <em>Ausbeuterbetrieb</em> all rolled into one.<br/>
<br/>
The ground beneath them was slippery, squelching under their boots. Dieter exhaled, backing under the eaves until his back hit the solid stone facing of the building. It was quiet, eerily so; even with the tavern separated by a mere wall and a short flight of steps, its pulse was blocked off, non-existent. Several yards across from them sat the cigar shop, with its second-floor apartments dark and shuttered, as per regulations decreed. There was no light source except the moon overhead, partially obstructed by rooftops and rainclouds.<br/>
<br/>
This could have been any nondescript alley, anywhere in the Reich. Where <em>unzuverlässige Elemente</em> would think to temporarily steal away to, assuming themselves unseen or unheard and allowed to go about their degenerate ways. Dieter had arrested <em>Judenknecht</em> in places like this, where they thought they could escape, hide.<br/>
<br/>
He'd even been accosted, himself, in similar—<br/>
<br/>
“I'll ask you again, Sturmbannführer: is something troubling you?” Landa took his spot next to Dieter, close enough that their arms brushed.<br/>
<br/>
And this time—perhaps because they were truly sequestered off from the world—Landa's question carried a hint of genuine concern. As if he <em>did</em> wish to know.<br/>
<br/>
But that wasn't what Landa meant to him—what anyone (any <em>man</em>) would ever mean. There was only one thing this arrangement with Landa was good for, which was why Dieter replied, “<em>Nein</em>. Nothing in the slightest.”<br/>
<br/>
“Then what are we doing back here?”<br/>
<br/>
Dieter inched over, his hand creeping closer to Landa's waist, wedging between it and the wall. To finally touch him, in earnest, was exhilarating. And unacceptable. So much so that it angered Dieter, causing him to snap at Landa as if he were a brainless <em>Schütze</em>. “Waiting, obviously.”<br/>
<br/>
“Waiting?”<br/>
<br/>
“For your driver.” Dieter hated thinking of them by their names—as actual <em>men</em> who were privy to the illicit relations between him and Landa. “I'd rather wait here, out of the rain.”<br/>
<br/>
“Ah. And here I thought it was because you couldn't wait to get me alone.” Landa rotated slightly, tilting his face up and keeping his gaze pinpointed on Dieter's lips. “That you couldn't wait until we got home to fuck me.”<br/>
<br/>
The last two words were barely a whisper but so deliberate... they <em>clicked</em> loudly in Dieter's mind. The safety being uncocked, and Landa begging him to pull the trigger.<br/>
<br/>
Skating his hand up to behind Landa's neck, Dieter's thoughts—<em>“I can't”—</em>rushed out in a rough plea that Landa accepted by meeting him halfway and welcoming the collision of their mouths. Landa's tongue and its ability to turn silver phrases was unmatched, and that same proficiency extended to the impassioned kissing they quickly became enmeshed in.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter didn't usually enjoy this, but the night's turn of events—Landa gifting <em>him</em> a spectacular new pistol, and all the insinuations made thereafter—had left him needy. Landa was so quick to remind Dieter of how much he had to rely on him, for a number of things, but this had made Dieter feel needed, and even, personally <em>desired</em>, and he couldn't muster the energy to fight the desperate longing spreading throughout him.<br/>
<br/>
It filled him with a deep, hollowed-out ache, how terribly he craved Landa at times. Landa, and the strength and power always radiating from him, that Dieter would steal for himself and throw it right back in the form of fucking Landa senseless.<br/>
<br/>
He had no shortage of acidic quips related to Landa's height, but secretly Dieter relished how neatly Landa fit against him: compact, solid, yet easy to maneuver. Warm, but not in a soft, repulsive way. It was a virility, burning bright to the point of aggression—until it wasn't. Until Dieter had him pinned down and moaning into a mattress—or as the case would be momentarily, a damp stone wall.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter's hands slid to the shoulders of Landa's jacket, gripping tight, possessive. He tugged, pushed, trying to force Landa into helping him out by removing it.<br/>
<br/>
Landa pulled back, letting out a low sinister chuckle. “Now, now. What are you trying to accomplish? You know, you were so recently promoted, it doesn't do you any good to fuck for rank.”<br/>
<br/>
“And what if I just want to fuck you. Not for rank.” <em>As gratitude</em>, Dieter almost added. Any confirmation of the <em>emotions</em> Landa incited within him would not be well met. Would only be viewed as weakness, even if Dieter suspected Landa was attuned to his motivations for initiating this.<br/>
<br/>
“What if, indeed?” Landa breathed, reaching a finger up to trace slow line from Dieter's cheek to his jaw. This gesture was common when Landa wanted to make Dieter angry, or at least flinch. “That sounds suspiciously as if you're admitting an <em>attraction</em> to me.”<br/>
<br/>
This was so fucking inane. They'd been sleeping together for going on nine years and Landa still liked to play this game of pretending he simply could not fathom that Dieter was authentically drawn to him, as immoral and perverse as it was. He savored every opportunity to remind Dieter that, despite his standing in the SS and Gestapo, by the <em>Führer</em>'s standards he would be deemed <em>Untermensch</em>.<br/>
<br/>
“Tell me,” Landa went on, pausing only to sneak in a teasing kiss. “Do you experience this compulsion for <em>every</em> man you encounter?”<br/>
<br/>
Dieter shoved at Landa, but with the wall directly behind him, there was nowhere to go. Landa was unaffected, still holding himself proudly and barking out a laugh that was much too loud for the clandestine nature of this moment. There was triumph bolstering his statement as he continued, “Ah, or perhaps it's just me who brings out the worst in you.”<br/>
<br/>
"Would you. <em>Shut. Up</em>," Dieter growled, palm slamming over Landa's unceasing commentary.</p><p>Landa seemed to comply, and Dieter waited a beat, then two, before letting his hand fall away only to reveal an incorrigible smile.</p><p>"Or what, hm?" There was no curiosity in Landa's words. Just a challenge—an intense yearning for it, that heightened when his voice dropped to a murmur. "You'll shoot me?"<br/>
<br/>
Dieter instantly withdrew the pistol from its holster. It wasn't loaded; Dieter knew that. Landa knew it too, but that didn't keep him from gasping, eyes wild in anticipation as the muzzle pressed to his brow.<br/>
<br/>
“Perhaps...” Dieter brought the muzzle down along Landa's cheek, a sweet caress that stopped at his jaw. “Unless you can give me a reason why I shouldn't.”<br/>
<br/>
“Sturmbannführer, you really—”<br/>
<br/>
Dieter tapped the muzzle, none-too-lightly, on Landa's chin. “<em>Nein</em>, show me, you <em>billige Hure.</em>”<br/>
<br/>
He dragged the barrel, slowly, from Landa's jaw to his parted mouth. Ran it in a lazy circle, a cruel encouragement for Landa to respond more than he ever could verbally. Landa's eyes, glinting like bullets, never left Dieter as he let the muzzle, then the barrel, slide between his pale, wet lips. Taking it like he might a cock. Not eager, exactly, but with purpose.<br/>
<br/>
A deprived gasp fell from Landa as Dieter, at last, removed the pistol from his mouth. It glistened with saliva, and he let out a short derisive laugh at the sight of it.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Sehr gut</em>. Now, let's see what else you're willing to do.”<br/>
<br/>
The pistol moved down, skimming along Landa's uniform until it clinked against his belt and came to a halt at his crotch. He bowed forward, using the barrel to rub himself. Dieter swallowed, overcome with a carnal <em>want</em> to see Landa come undone. To <em>make</em> Landa come undone.<br/>
<br/>
Landa took hold of Dieter's wrist, bringing it lower and driving the pistol forward. The barrel was between his legs, its solid metallic length stroking along his clothed groin.<br/>
<br/>
He barely had to move the pistol at all; Landa was doing all the work, riding along the barrel and only able to keep his footing due to clutching at Dieter's arms as he did so.<br/>
<br/>
Watching Landa stripped of his usual unyielding control—<em>feeling</em> it in his feverish movements, in the sharp breaths bursting along his neck—Dieter could only sigh with a satisfaction he'd yet to experience this evening. However aroused this had Landa, helpless to do anything but rut like a beast along the length of the pistol, Dieter found himself equally captivated, and so very pleased with having Landa at his mercy.<br/>
<br/>
“You're going to come like this?” Dieter taunted. <em>Gott</em>, if only. He'd finish himself if that were to happen, solely from how fucking <em>stupid </em>it would make Landa look.<br/>
<br/>
Landa laughed, harsh and dismissive. “<em>Nein</em>, of course not.” He pressed harder, nearly causing the pistol to fall as he pulled Dieter in for a quick, bruising kiss. With an unquestionable finality, he whispered, “Only once you're inside me, <em>Liebling</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
He loathed these little pet names Landa threw out every now and then—so patronizing, <em>intimate</em>, like this really did or could mean anything. And even more, Dieter hated that Landa had the nerve to use them in the first place, when he could forgo them. But what he hated most of all was his own body betraying him and surrendering to such amateur tactics.<br/>
<br/>
He jerked the pistol back up. The low groan it elicited from Landa, Dieter caught in another fierce kiss.<br/>
<br/>
“Belt,” he snarled.</p><p>Landa immediately unbuckled his own, not requiring instruction to work Dieter's open too.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Ja</em>, now turn around.”<br/>
<br/>
“Check my pocket first,” Landa choked out as the pistol swiped along his tented briefs.<br/>
<br/>
“You're not giving—”<br/>
<br/>
“Oh, <em>ha</em>, but I think you'll like what you'll find.”<br/>
<br/>
Keeping the pistol trained on Landa's cock, Dieter used his free hand to riffle through Landa's uniform pockets. In one there was only his <em>Soldatbuch</em> and a few napkins, presumably pilfered from the tavern. But from the right pocket...<br/>
<br/>
Dieter withdrew a small tube, its label denoting it was a personal lubricant. Of course Landa had one; he likely owned several, much like nearly every soldier, with the disgusting overabundance of <em>Straßenmädchen </em>and camouflaged brothels all throughout the Reich.<br/>
<br/>
“Turn around,” he repeated, continuing to rub Landa through his briefs with the muzzle.<br/>
<br/>
Landa, miraculously, only hesitated long enough for another kiss before doing as instructed and bracing his arms against the wall.<br/>
<br/>
Once their briefs were down further, Dieter briefly holstered the pistol, needing both hands to sufficiently slick his fingers. He was sure, as with everything, that Landa was acutely aware of this.<br/>
<br/>
“You planned this,” he said, stuffing the lubricant into his own pocket. Because what <em>didn't</em> Landa plan?<br/>
<br/>
“Not exactly. Here I was hoping we'd at least make it to the car—<em>aaah</em>!” Landa jolted, pushed back along the two, then three fingers that slid smoothly into him. “Spent so many nights thinking how you'd take me there.”<br/>
<br/>
He knew exactly what Landa was describing, a reprise of past encounters in the Benz. Them using the backseat in its entirety, with Landa straddling Dieter's lap and riding him for all he was worth. Cock stiff and jabbing Dieter's abdomen, the relentless friction triggering a hot, sticky mess all over Dieter's partially-unbuttoned brownshirt while swarms of moans and curses spilled from both of them.<br/>
<br/>
Landa shuddered, sounding almost vulnerable, but covered it with a shaky laugh. “Who knows, mm... a <em>Schwuchtel </em>like you would be ready and willing to go again immediately, <em>ja</em>?”<br/>
<br/>
“Shut up.” Dieter withdrew his fingers, wiping them along the tail of Landa's jacket. Swiftly, the same arm went around Landa's waist and drew him back, and Dieter had to force himself to not just plow right into him. “I fucking swear, Hans, for <em>once, </em>don't you dare moan like the little slut you are.”<br/>
<br/>
“Can't help it with you, <em>Schatzi</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
Dieter found his pistol again and raised it level with Landa's ribs. “Not a fucking sound. <em>Ja</em>?”<br/>
<br/>
Landa ground back at the erection teasing his entrance and sighed, letting it stretch into a moan he stifled with his balled-up fist.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Ja</em>?” This time, Dieter prodded Landa with the pistol. Hard.<br/>
<br/>
Finally, a nod. “<em>Ja</em>, just take me already—if you're man enough.”<br/>
<br/>
Dieter was more than man enough; it was Landa who gasped sharply at the initial penetration. <em>Gott</em>, he <em>always</em> did and Dieter would never tire of it.<br/>
<br/>
Two, three thrusts and he was seated, entirely, and Landa might have been biting down on his hand, but it hardly concealed his pleas for more. He pushed back, meeting every thrust as he attempted desperately to touch, stroke himself.<br/>
<br/>
Dieter couldn't get over how <em>amazing</em> it felt, every time. Even when he had no investment other than reaching a climax as soon as possible, he was always so aware of how tight Landa was, how willingly he took to having a cock thrust inside him and how shamelessly he begged for it to be harder and faster until he was groaning and spasming into the couch or sheets or desk or wherever the fuck they were.<br/>
<br/>
It wasn't just that Dieter was <em>fucking Hans Landa</em>, Hans Landa wanted Dieter to fuck <em>him. </em>Fuck him raw and blind and over and over again.<br/>
<br/>
He had an ear out for any would-be trespassers, as well as Landa's trademark chastisement. But Landa was unusually at a loss for words. Perhaps this is what it took for him to wholly submit, and it was obscene, how badly Dieter <em>had</em> to not only have Landa, but have him be the first to unravel.<br/>
<br/>
He didn't usually care, even if Landa always had something to say about it. But this time...<br/>
<br/>
“Could've given you French lesson in all this time you're taking,” Landa managed between groans.<br/>
<br/>
“Hans... I told you...”<br/>
<br/>
“The first word is <em>tapette—</em>you should know <em>that</em>, but let's hear it to—”<br/>
<br/>
Dieter pulled the trigger.<br/>
<br/>
It was automatic; he'd told Landa not to be loud, to not talk at <em>all </em> and he'd disobeyed. This was the consequence: the metallic <em>click</em>! echoing in the night, followed by the recoil—not from the pistol, but from Landa himself. Landa slammed back against Dieter, shuddering and moaning, stifling it with his fist halfway through as Dieter snarled through gritted teeth to <em>shut up shut the fuck up you fucking whore</em>.<br/>
<br/>
It hit him like a sucker-punch, only a few thrusts later. Dimly, he heard Landa chiding him for insubordination as the rest of their surroundings were muted by the crashing intensity of his own climax.<br/>
<br/>
He could barely holster the pistol, could barely even stand upright. He managed the first one, but succumbed to his basest urge to finish in his own terms. Even if Landa didn't <em>need</em> this, Dieter didn't care—this was about what he wanted.<br/>
<br/>
He spun Landa around and fell to his knees on the damp pavement. He took Landa—spent, half-hard, stained and sticky—full into his mouth, greedy for the taste of every last drop. Landa sighed with resignation, his hand coming to rest approvingly atop Dieter's head, combing shallow waves through his hair. The soft patter of rain mixed with the more fervent, wet suction as Dieter basked in the wordless attention Landa bestowed upon him, eager to show he was every bit deserving of it.<br/>
<br/>
Landa shivered, a reverent “<em>Bitte</em>” escaping his lips when Dieter's hands clasped the back of his knees, driving Landa's cock deeper down his throat.<br/>
<br/>
He never cared how depraved Landa might think him for so readily taking him orally. Landa had no room to do so—he clearly enjoyed receiving it as much as Dieter liked providing it. And so it was one of the few subjects Landa wouldn't harp on him incessantly about—he didn't want to chance Dieter ever withholding such pleasure from him.<br/>
<br/>
Landa yanked at Dieter's hair, effectively verifying he was suitably cleaned up. “Now the wall.”<br/>
<br/>
“The wall...?” he rasped out, dazed.<br/>
<br/>
The cold kiss of metal met his temple.<br/>
<br/>
But his Walther was snug in its holster.<br/>
<br/>
“The wall,” Landa repeated.<br/>
<br/>
There was a <em>click</em>. <em>Landa's</em> pistol. His loaded pistol.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Now</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
Landa had stepped aside. Even in the ink-black night, Dieter could easily find the areas spotted with the results of the trigger being pulled on Landa. A few thick trails ran syrup-slow down the tavern's rugged facade.<br/>
<br/>
He was supposed to...? “...<em>What</em>?”<br/>
<br/>
Landa grabbed at Dieter's hair, pitched him forward before releasing his grip. The gun's barrel replaced his hand, and Dieter couldn't suppress a whimper as he found himself in front of the stone wall, inhaling its rank, moldy scent.<br/>
<br/>
“Clean it up,” Landa said, terse and unfeeling.<br/>
<br/>
The muzzle prodded Dieter the final few inches, and he obeyed. Licked the wall once, twice, tongue scraping up a mixture of the drying semen and undetermined filth. He gagged at the taste, at the residue coating his throat that he could barely swallow. He nearly threw it back up, his stomach churning, but the fear that Landa might twitch his finger and blow a hole through his skull kept him from losing his composure.<br/>
<br/>
Landa used the barrel, in place of his hand, to stroke Dieter's disheveled hair. “<em>Gut Gemacht</em>, Sturmbannführer. Ah, but let's see. Can't be too certain, after all.”<br/>
<br/>
Dieter could hardly string together a coherent thought, but he had the vague assumption Landa meant the wall. He tried to back up, to let Landa see that he'd—hopefully—followed the order through not just adequately, but exceptionally.<br/>
<br/>
“Excellent. Up, up now! Let's see you, too.”<br/>
<br/>
Landa holstered his pistol. Hand free, he reached down to grab Dieter underneath the arm and haul him to his feet.<br/>
<br/>
Landa's grip clenched around Dieter's chin, forcing his mouth open so as to inspect it. If he were still holding his Walther, he would've instantly smashed the smirk right off Landa's face with it. It was degrading, having Landa make sure he'd swallowed everything he'd licked up, and yet Dieter felt pride swell unbidden as Landa “<em>hm</em>”ed favorably.<br/>
<br/>
“There you are. Commendable as always.” From his pocket, Landa retrieved the napkins Dieter had come across earlier. Ever prepared. “Now, clean yourself up, too.”<br/>
<br/>
Dieter's mind was still reeling, his hands unsteady and his breathing irregular as he hastily wiped himself off and rearranged his uniform the best he could. He could still feel a phantom imprint of the muzzle to his head, and made an act of smoothing his tousled hair down, just to be extra certain that Landa hadn't whipped his own pistol out again.<br/>
<br/>
<em>Gott</em>, at least Landa paid his driver enough to not ask questions; there'd be no explaining Landa's soiled jacket, or his own dirtied slacks, and especially not the degree to which both their uniforms was dampened. The sour combination of dirt and semen sat heavy in his mouth; the shame, even heavier, sinking through his middle.<br/>
<br/>
Infuriated by this maelstrom of condemnable emotions—by Landa being the one to evoke them—Dieter knew now why his gun hadn't been loaded. Because he would have plugged Landa with an entire round and left him to rot in this alley for that stunt he'd just pulled.<br/>
<br/>
He chucked the wadded-up napkin at Landa, as hard as such a thing could be thrown. Landa threw his napkin back, though with hardly as much viciousness.<br/>
<br/>
“Really, this alley is dirty enough. Must you litter on top of it?” Landa asked, making no effort to pick up the errant napkins.<br/>
<br/>
“You could have accidentally fired,” Dieter snapped at him. <em>Killed me.</em> Being willing to die for the <em>Vaterland</em> didn't include a yearning to do so immediately after taking one of the SD's most prestigious figures to a putrid French alley and brutalizing each other sexually.<br/>
<br/>
“<em>Nein</em>, don't be ridiculous.” That was rich, coming from Landa. He gave Dieter just enough time to roll his eyes before continuing. “When have you ever known me to do anything accidental? I assure you, everything I say or do is with conscious intent. And I do mean, <em>everything</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
At that, he reached up and patted Dieter's cheek. It was so fucking <em>condescending</em>, any other time Dieter would have retaliated by touching Landa's cheek—swinging his fist, not with a gentle pat. But the way he was looking at Dieter—as if he'd revealed some great secret, and now, it was just between the two of them...<br/>
<br/>
When there was so much secret between them already, too tedious to disentangle what—if anything—had any sort of honest foundation to it.</p><p>“Hans...” He swallowed, heart still racing. The chill of the rain began to seep through the warmth he'd acquired from those moments with Landa. “You could have...”<br/>
<br/>
“Quiet, Sturmbannführer,” Landa said, bringing his fingertips to Dieter's mouth and shushing him. “Of course I could've. Why, I could at any given <em>second</em> rid myself of you, one way or another. Don't think, over the past several years, that I haven't entertained such a notion.”<br/>
<br/>
Dieter knew this—that his life was in Landa's hands. Landa had swooped in to keep him from meeting a certain fate years ago; Dieter wasn't naive enough to believe he'd extend that measure of goodwill ever again.<br/>
<br/>
And yet, to a degree, that's what he'd done. Been the one to, entirely by his own design, bring Dieter to the very precipice, dangled him over the edge, and drawn him back at the last second.<br/>
<br/>
“Ja, Standartenführer. I know,” Dieter muttered against Landa's fingers, catching the faint taste of salt and metal.<br/>
<br/>
“But it's as I said: nothing I do is by accident. Which includes continuing our arrangement.” Landa's fingers ghosted down, propped under Dieter's chin to ensure his full attention was being held. “I must say... as enjoyable as it was to gift you your new pistol, disarming you provides a far greater thrill. Wouldn't you agree?”<br/>
<br/>
Disarmed. Exposed. Even after having dominated Landa, feeding this ravenous appetite both of them couldn't quite seem to fully sate, Dieter felt horribly... unsatisfied. Which Landa could clearly sense and was even contented by, to the point he was perfectly serene when Dieter replied with a quiet “<em>Ja</em>.”<br/>
<br/>
“Come now, you weren't <em>really</em> frightened, were you? I can't imagine; not you, <em>unberechenbar </em>as you tend to be, Dieter.” His smile grew; coming from Landa, being called unpredictable was complimentary. “Why, you're the one who <em>instills</em> fear, not experiences it.”<br/>
<br/>
<em>I don't </em><em>show it, you mean</em>, Dieter wanted to correct him, but thought better of it. Admitting he felt it to begin with was unacceptable. And would only further empower Landa.<br/>
<br/>
“You know you've nothing to worry about so long as you're with me, hm?” Landa added. There was nothing reassuring to his tone, only the false cheer that Dieter knew was a mask to the menace beneath it.<br/>
<br/>
Safer, and never more endangered. Both of which melded into Dieter grasping Landa by the arm and pulling him into a kiss that was more a means to share the vile taste coating his mouth. Landa, predictably, was hardly revolted, and broke away with that devious flare in his eyes.<br/>
<br/>
“Mm, so I wasn't wrong when I predicted you'd be willing to have another session once we're on our way home?” Which would be any minute now.<br/>
<br/>
“Home?” Dieter asked with faux confusion. “You mean, this seedy alley isn't—”<br/>
<br/>
Landa backed Dieter against the wall, inches from the spot he'd marred. “Watch your mouth, Sturmbannführer.” His arm lay horizontal, pressing along Dieter's sternum. “Then again, <em>I'd</em> like to watch it... in the backseat, around my cock.”<br/>
<br/>
“You're out of your mind.” Dieter shoved at Landa's arm to knock it loose, but Landa was still mere inches from him, undeterred.<br/>
<br/>
“So... then, perhaps, you'd rather I take you? It might help you relax; it certainly did last—”<br/>
<br/>
“No. <em>Verpiss dich</em>, that's not happening.” When it <em>had</em>, there'd been significantly more alcohol involved—a glaring mistake, on Dieter's part. “And don't think you can convince me, either. You can't.”<br/>
<br/>
“No? What's the American expression... oh! 'Not unless you put a gun to my head'?” Landa's grin spread, accompanied by a sudden, forceful poke to Dieter's stomach. “Because that can be arranged.”<br/>
<br/>
Dieter didn't flinch, but he did tense up. Landa's chuckle confirmed he felt it, and he lowered the pistol as, in the distance, through the alley's entrance, a thin beam of light flickered past. A car—what must've been Landa's Benz.<br/>
<br/>
“Ah, perfect timing,” Landa said.<br/>
<br/>
“After you, Standartenführer.” Dieter nodded for Landa to go on ahead of him. It went unspoken they couldn't exit the alley together. The car would be far enough down the street that they wouldn't be seen reemerging, but there was still no point in risking it.<br/>
<br/>
“Of course. Age before beauty, after all.” Landa reached up to tweak Dieter's nose, and was met with a solid punch to the arm.<br/>
<br/>
Brushing it off with a laugh, Landa stepped away, and headed out of the alley. Dieter stood, watching. <em>Waiting</em>, on guard, in case Landa changed his mind for whatever reason. Even after Landa disappeared around the corner, Dieter's hand remained instinctively close to his dagger.<br/>
<br/>
It wasn't those pitiful Frenchmen that Dieter couldn't take his eyes off for a second, it was <em>Gott verdammt </em>Hans Landa.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Um, Happy (belated) Valentine's Day?  Back at it with that Nazi filth.   Literally I can not stop writing them oh well.  </p><p>Thank you to May for helping me with the French and German questions I had! Any other mistakes are my own but hopefully nothing is too appalling.  Also, researching info about WWII Guns as well as the Carlingue was fun/interesting!  Half the fun of writing Basterds fanfic, for me, has been all the shiz I've learned/re-learned.</p><p>Kudos and comments are always appreciated!!  &lt;3  and a special thank you to those who've supported my other Landstrom fics. :)  This should by no means be my last one for them.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>